The wife's mother's house was supposed to be a haven, but her husband's wandering hands and hungry mouth had other plans. As she left, she was a mess of disheveled hair and crumpled clothes, her pussy still throbbing from their secret tryst. The drive home was a torturous tease, her thighs slick with their combined juices. Now, as she stands in the doorway, her husband's eyes rake over her, taking in the evidence of her betrayal. His voice is a low growl, "You're wet, wife. And it's not from the rain, is it?"